


After Dark Comes the Storm

by Dev14



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Bad Parenting, Bullying, ByaRen, Child Neglect, Child!Renji, Courtesan Renji, Courtesan district, Daimyo Byakuya, Death, Drama, Edo Period, Floating World of Historical Japan, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Murder, Objectification, Red Light District, Romance, Set around 17th century, Teen!Byakuya, Tokugawa Shogunate, Tragedy, Ukiyo, Violence, implied child trafficking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:13:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25839400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dev14/pseuds/Dev14
Summary: He was saved by the lonely child, only to abandon him for a hollow home. Eight years later, they meet again in the enigmatic pleasure quarters of the floating world.A story of a peerless noble who trusted no one, and a peculiar courtesan with an obscure past. Their fates were intertwined.
Relationships: Abarai Renji/Kuchiki Byakuya
Comments: 13
Kudos: 36
Collections: The Seireitei Server August Writing Challenge 2020





	1. The Drifter and the Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my fill for the Seireitei Server August Writing Challenge 2020 from Discord.
> 
> Prompt: Polaris by Aimer. Check out the song, it's so beautiful!
> 
> Note: I won't delve into the historical aspects of the era much, because I want to focus on the characters and relationships. Certain elements of the characters and backgrounds here may be historically inaccurate so please keep that in mind.

The first time they met the other was unconscious, floating by the riverbed on a stolen boat.

He thought the rickety old thing was empty, at first. But as he followed it down the riverbank, watching the small boat drifting lazily on the slow current, he saw the person lying underneath the wooden planks. A fisherman of their small village caught the boat before it floated further downstream, having been only preparing the bait for his fishing rod when he ran down the riverside while pointing at the boat in the water. The fisherman pulled the drifter out of the boat that floated gently by the riverbank, blood seeping from under the unconscious person's once pristine white _shitagi_ , now a murky sort of grey and brown in color, a plain katana with dirty, crusted scabbard clutched tight in his hand.

His parents, the generous ones in their village, took the beaten-up young man into their humble household. It was small, and they only had two modest bedrooms with threadbare futons—but it was enough. Now with the drifter in their home, they were left with one futon. Both obedience and curiosity played a part in him accepting that the drifter was to be placed in his room, the thoughts of why his parents didn't sacrifice theirs instead never once crossed his eight-years-old mind.

He watched the slumbering person, now shed from his dirty, filthy clothes and covered in bandages around his torso and his arms—he had to wrinkle his nose and ran as fast as his tiny feet would carry him when his mother told him to take the garments to her laundry basket.

He had helped his mother clean the drifter from all the filth in his body, almost retching multiple times as the stench that came from the blood and other bodily fluids left to dry on the parched skin for what must have been days, was too strong for his nose. The more they cleaned the drifter's body, the more the wounds were revealed. Multiple gashes on his torso, a deep stab wound on his rib and shallow cuts littering his arms, as if he was fighting against too many enemies at once. By the time they were done, the water in the wooden tub they had used had turn murky brown and metallic smells wafted from all the blood.

Without all the dirt and grimes covering his skin and clothed in one of his father's older robes which looked a tad too big on the slender form, the stranger's skin was as pale as the moon itself. It was rare to find someone with skin as clear as the drifter in his village, only having been able to watch glimpses of nobilities in their fancy palanquins traveling down the main road.

He must be one of those nobles too, then, he thought. Excitement surged at the notion of having such an important person in his room, and questions formed in the child's head as to who the drifter was, where he was going with his boat, and how did he get his injuries.

The boy fell asleep with his questions, dreams of floating boats, and their pale-skinned occupants lulling in his subconscious as he laid his head on the edge of the futon by the drifter's side.

* * *

It was a stormy day when his parents were stuck in the city selling their merchandise and leaving him behind to take care of the still unconscious drifter in their house.

It was already late evening, and the small child became more and more worried the longer he waited for his parents to come home. They were usually back by sunset whenever they journeyed to the city to sell their wooden crafts and trinkets he always thought of as toys.

He watched the storm outside their meager window, the small wooden opening rattled, and water seeped through into the tatami floorings. The tiny gap he made was enough to spray rainwater in his face and he immediately closed it shut, cringing at how wet his kimono had become.

Small feet carried the boy to their modest kitchen, checking to see if the rice porridge his mother had left on their simple firewood stove was still hot—she told him to make the drifter eat something if he woke up. His little finger dipped into the sludge to find it had gotten cold, which was a given as it had been left sitting since morning.

He tried his best to light the firewood up from how his father taught him, not knowing that it was strange to let such a small, unsuspecting child playing with something so dangerous, let alone leaving him unattended while doing so.

His parents were 'outsiders', at least that was how the villagers call them. They never seemed to care, and he didn't understand if it was a bad thing or not. He did notice that he didn't live the same life like other kids, not playing with them outside and instead, helping his father collecting wood and his mother in carving those odd-shaped things that they sell to the market in the city every week.

He longed to play with the other kids in the village, but his parents never tried to encourage him to join them. As a child, he didn't find it odd. His mother taught him that he was being a good boy helping them instead and 'forsaking' his fun. He had no clue what those words meant when she told him one day, correcting the carving knife in his small hand and he continued to carve the small block of wood to the shape that she wanted.

The boy let his eyes drift close as he waited for the porridge to heat up, standing by the wall of the kitchen, only to surprise himself awake when the wooden lid of the large pot let out a loud rattle. He scrambled to put the fire out and brought out a bowl to ladle the thick porridge into. The fragrant scent of chicken and vegetable stock made his stomach growl, and he was reminded that he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast after his parents left. Thinking that the drifter wouldn't be awake even by tomorrow, he decided to enjoy the portion himself as he waited for his parents to return. There were enough for both of them if they hadn't eaten dinner when they return, too.

He made his way to his room, childhood giddiness in eating food there that his mother always told him not to do because it was 'uncourteous'. He heard a loud thunder booming far away and jumped in surprise, hurrying his steps so he could be by the comfort of his room, even though there was a stranger in it.

He stopped on the doorway—the shoji screen left ajar—surprise in his eyes when he found the drifter stirring.

He walked closer to the futon, curiosity blossoming inside him, along with something he didn't quite have a name for it yet, other than the fact that it made his skin prickled and cold sweat ran down his spine.

All he knew was that his parents weren't there, and he was alone with a stranger that carried a sword when he was found. He had yet a name for the dread that sank his heart and made it beat faster than normal. No name for the dark imagery in his head where he saw himself lying on the ground with blood all over him, much like how the drifter was found.

What he had a name for was excitement; curiosity. He latched into those familiar feelings instead, and bravado surged his heart as he stepped closer until he was by the futon, the stranger's face was turned to him.

Slate grey orbs opened, as striking as the lightning that struck outside.

His immediate reflex was to jump, and he fell backward, dropping on his back and the bowl of porridge fell by his side, the content splattered on his kimono.

"Aw shi-t!" he exclaimed, the curse word clumsy in his tongue as he heard them from the older boys. He didn't know what they meant but it was too much fun saying them to himself, over and over again as he walked down the path to his house one afternoon—his parents first heard the word coming out of his mouth, and they told him to 'never utter such filth that was unbecoming of him'.

He pouted at the mess he made on the floor, picking up the bowl that was near empty of its previous content in dismay, and looking mournfully at the soiled tatami mat and his own kimono. His mother would have his hands if he didn't clean everything up before her return.

He was about to get up and grab a rag from the kitchen as if forgetting about the drifter that had awakened when he caught a groan coming from the futon.

* * *

He let out a pained sound when he tried to move his limbs, finding them aching all over and his movements a tad constricted. A thundering storm roared nearby, but he was dry. He was sheltered.

Where?

He heard light steps entering his hearing range. They paused somewhere close, before closing down on him. He tried to move his hands, anything, to reach for his sword, but it was too painful to even move his fingers, and his head felt as if rocks were rained down on him.

When the feet stopped right beside his lying form, the rustling sound of clothes as the person—a woman, perhaps?—knelt down, he urged his heavy lids to open, to catch the sight of the threat before he was slain. The first thing he saw was—

Red.

It was a hypnotic shade, dark as blood yet bright as the horizon that welcomed the setting sun. The scarlet strands of silk—it was _hair_ , his mind supplied in awe—flowing messily around a small body that fell down to the floor in surprise. A child.

Something that smelled mouth-wateringly good drifted to his nose, and his eyes found that it was rice porridge, spilled messily on the tatami. He mourned for the spilled food, having nothing to eat since he escaped from his captors. He unconsciously moved his arms, to which another painful groan escaped his lips before he could rein it in.

"A-are you okay?" a small voice queried, the child's eyes large and filled with wary concern.

He ignored the child's inquiry, lost in his trepidation as he woke up in a foreign place—again. But he wasn't harmed, he noted, _yet_. His wounds were bandaged and his clothes replaced. But that didn't mean he had the time to relax. He knew it wasn't his room, he wasn't back in his home, and wasn't found by his father's men. He needed to go.

He stifled a whimper as he forced himself to sit up, only falling down the futon again with a grunt.

"Hey, don't move you big idiot!"

He grunted, not caring for the child's insulting words as he tried again. When small hands grabbed his arms, he slapped them away in shock, not caring for what he had hit.

A yell echoed in the small room, though the thunder clapped loudly outside, the sound was deafening to his ears. Chocolate eyes full of fear looked at him, and the child whimpered in his place crouching on the ground. There was a large reddish mark on his small cheek, and tears trailing down his eyes from the sting, down to his chin.

" _Why are you so mean_?" the child complained, fingers trying to wipe the tears on his face, only to hiss in pain when he touched the stinging skin.

The urge to apologize was imminent and the words almost slipped from his mouth before his mind took over and shut down the empathetic words before he could make himself more vulnerable. For all he knew, he was still in danger, captured by a different set of insurgents who saw his value in attaining power.

"Where am I?" he asked instead, his voice cold, even to his own ears.

"My house," the child supplied weakly, knowing to answer when asked a question by adults. His parents taught him so, even though he could see that the drifter was barely older than the older boys at the village.

The drifter was silent for a long time. The child didn't dare to move from his position on the floor, at first, even when his clothing was wet with porridge sludge that was cooling on his robes, seeping into his skin and his cheek throbbed. His instinct told him that the slightest movements might trigger another strike, and he nearly whimpered shamefully at the prospect of being hit once more.

He could feel the drifter's eyes on him, and he felt like the raven-haired young man was another species entirely. Not like him, or his parent, or old man Jiro who came by from time to time to sell them his fresh catch—the only one who willingly went to their house at the edge of the village, the man who brought the drifter into their home.

Not like the older boys at the main part of the village, who played and ignored his presence even when he shouted and begged to join them in their games. The ones who would hit him and did things to him that made his mother having to wash his kimono and his body and his hair for a good part of an hour in the river.

No. It was like one of those nobilities in their large palanquins, who caught him staring at the glimpse of their beautiful robes and fair skin behind the slits of the screen windows, though blurred behind the wooden bars and rice screens, his eyes wander. And as they gazed at him, he could see their expression, clear as day, and they held the same disdain, the same coldness that the raven had.

His eyes grew heavy, as he tried in his brain to come up with words that he could describe the drifter's piercing eyes, the sharp orbs still glaring at him. The sound of thunderstorm lulled him to sleep the longer they stayed in their position, unmoving. And when his eyes drifted shut, thunderous eyes were at the forefront of his mind.

* * *

The boy fell asleep on the floor, still with his soiled clothing, and the raven relaxed on the futon, leaning against the wall it was pushed against, and finally looked around the dingy, tiny room. It was bare except for a low drawer, and a tattered stuffed doll—a red monkey with an odd white tail—that was sitting on a small, low table by the corner near his futon. So this was the child's room, he concluded.

There seemed to be no one home; if there was someone would have come to check the commotion the boy made when he struck him. Guilt gnawed at his conscient when he reminded himself of the fact, looking at the bruise that was starting to form on the boy's swollen cheek, but he steeled himself. He could trust no one. Even as cautious as he was, _they_ still managed to kidnap him for ransom, and he had to escape on his own—making his first kill and numerous more, only to fall unconscious from his wounds and ended up in another unfamiliar place.

He ended up staying awake until dawn, drifting to sleep several times as the storm lulled him but he clenched his fist that burnt in aching pain, and he kept himself up.

The sound of a waterlogged wooden door being slammed opened startled him from his meditating state and the boy was jolted awake. The redhaired child scrambled to his feet, forgetting that he was there and ran out of the room screaming "mother!" in barely contained excitement.

Sounds of muffled voices reached his ears and multiple footsteps— _adults_ , his mind screamed in alarm—grew nearer and he was waiting in trepidation for his captors to show themselves. Until the sight of a woman, barely in her thirties with brown-ish red hair with a relieved smile on her face, and a dark-haired man with a large wooden basket by his side entered into the room.

Peasants.

He narrowed his eyes, muscles wounding up tightly as he hunched, waiting for them to reveal their true nature and strike. The small child was hiding behind the woman's kimono, a petulant glare took up most of his expression, the light bruise apparent in his slightly swollen cheek.

He wondered why these two would leave the child on his own with a stranger, to boot. Unless it was a part of their plan, to make him lower his guard. To think that he was safe. They may not be his kidnappers, but they might be collaborators. He could never be too guarded, as long as he was still in a foreign place.

"Red, go clean your face and wash your clothes by the river. Your face looks horrible and you are utterly filthy; filthy boys are disgusting, aren't they?" the woman told the child clinging to her, who looked at her face and nodded, scurrying away.

The drifter's frown deepened, the short exchange between mother and child was disturbing. What kind of mother would say such a nasty thing to their child? And the fact that the boy complied with a smile made him more suspicious. Who were they?

"You are the daimyo's son, aren't you," the man beside her suddenly said as if he didn't hear what the woman just told their child; and it wasn't a question. He stiffened at the statement, hand reaching for the sword that wasn't there. He glared at them, hating the circumstances that made him vulnerable.

The man put his arms up in a placating display, "we saw the daimyo's _mon_ on your robes, and we saw the troops sent out to find you days before old man Jiro brought you here."

"We don't want any trouble. But please," the woman came closer, pausing when he snarled at her like a wounded beast, and knelt down next to the futon he was seated on, "we were once nobilities," she stammered, "lower nobles, but the daimyo acknowledged our status. I, my husband and I ran away foolishly from our families when we were young and thought to have a life of our own. We don't want that anymore, this life is stupid and painful and, and it's hard to live amongst these peasants and raising our son by ourselves. You have seen our son, haven't you? He is _different_ , and he is constantly bullied by the cruel boys at the village!"

The woman heaved a breath, tears streaming down her lightly wrinkled cheeks, "we can take you to the city, but please, would you grant us a place amongst your servants?"

The begging, the sobbing, and the utterly disgusting display of the woman made his ire rise.

These people, he understood now, were not his kidnappers, the furthest away from them. Instead, they were one of those nobles he had heard from the rumor mills, who abandoned their duties to the shogun, frolicking around the countryside until they ran out of _ryo_ and became nothing but the peasants they thought were under their feet.

He could see now, why they treated their son as they did. They didn't deserve the blessing of a child. Blaming their child's miserable childhood on other people instead of taking responsibility for their mistakes, and easily letting him stay alone with a stranger while they were gone because they thought him as a 'fellow nobility'. The mother, calling her own son 'filthy', and the innocence in the child's smile as he complied with her despicable words, because more than likely, he didn't know any better.

His own mother, as short his time was with her, never once looked at him with such blank look in her face, only to be reduced to a sniveling snot when she was begging for someone to save her from her 'misery'.

"Wife, we should leave the young lord to recover," the man wisely interjected, seeing the disgust and anger clear in the young man's face. Even having lived amongst peasants for more than ten winters, the man still held himself with the sophisticated air of a noble, however miserable he had become—his wife, however, seemed to have lost herself in her own emotional outbursts that similar of the spoiled women prancing in his father's court.

"Please excuse this lowly servant's despicable behavior, milord," the wife bowed down low in humiliation, somewhat regaining her composure with a sniff.

"My sword," he said, ignoring the woman and glared up at her husband instead.

"Is being cleaned, milord. I swear to you that it would be returned at once," the husband answered quickly, also bowing low, "in the meantime, please take your time to rest and recover."

He would rather commit seppuku than to stay there any longer, he thought to himself. But the ache across his entire body and the wounds littering his skin proved that he might need to stay for a while. He resigned to his fate. His father simply needed to wait longer for his heir to return. He hoped that he would not have to deal with these people any more than necessary.

* * *

It had been a week or so since his arrival at the village—though the circumstance of said 'arrival' was not to be ever mentioned again—and he had recovered his strength some. The bandages around his body were finally removed, leaving thin, pink scars on his pale torso and arms, the skin was softer and more tender to the touch still, but he knew they would be gone within two weeks—except for the short, deep wound by his left rib from a knife stab, that he knew would stay for life.

He would be on his way to the city and return home, but the husband and wife were adamant that he stayed, that it was too dangerous for him to leave 'now'. He knew they simply wanted him to go with them, so they could offer his safe return to the daimyo themselves and gain a reward from their deed—the chance to live in the daimyo's court, and back to a more comfortable lifestyle they enjoyed when they were younger. They had been watching his every move attentively, since then, fearing that he would leave without them, even though he never said so much as a 'yes' to their proposal. It might have been his fault, for he barely responded to their questions and probes.

Their child, however, was another matter entirely.

"Are you a samurai?" the redhaired child asked on the fifth day, as he was eating the stew offered by the child's mother gingerly.

The boy had been pestering him during his stay, asking questions, and following him wherever he went around their tiny house. On the day he finally managed to stand and walk for a prolonged period of time, he went outside to determine his location—and the boy still followed him.

They were sitting by the front of the house, at a rickety old bench on the front porch shaded by wooden awnings. The child tilted his head, waiting for him to answer. He didn't say anything, as he always did, and opted to sip at the broth of the remaining stew instead.

The boy pouted and tried to reach for him, but he gripped the tiny arm in his larger hand before he managed to.

When a tiny whimper reached his ears, he let go of the arm immediately, as if burnt.

"Do you always do that when people try to touch you?" the boy frowned, rubbing at his sore wrist. He was getting used to the treatment, hints of light bruising whenever the stranger slapped his hand away or gripped his limb too hard like he just did mar his sun-kissed skin.

The boy was strange, he decided, even stranger than his parents. Perhaps it was how he was raised, to never question adults. He had seen the way his parents treated him, not like a child, but that of a young helper. They didn't allow him much time to play, nor did they accompany him when he was alone. They worked on their decidedly disgusting carvings and the boy was tasked to help. He had never seen the boy play during his stay, nor did he think the boy knew how to. The most he had seen that was as close to a child having fun was when the boy giggled as he drew doodles in the dirt with a stick, only for his mother to scold him, being 'dirty for playing with dirt' and took him inside to wash him.

It was as if they were raising a maiko, in a strange, surreal manner. The boy was subdued, and the only time he heard him said something out loud was the first time they met.

"You don't have to act so coldly," the boy said, after a while, "I saw you feeding the ducks in our pond. I don't think someone who feeds ducks with a smile in their face is a bad person."

Try as he might, he felt the skin of his cheeks heat up. He glared, to compensate, but the boy only smiled at him, as if he knew him; as if the boy knew who he really was. As if his heart was bare.

It was scary.

The boy was perceptive.

"You're the first person who let me follow you around like this, even though you're always so silent, and you never even told me your name," he pouted at this, his lower lip jutted out and he finally resembled a _child_ , but then he continued, "the boys at the village hate me, I think... and my mother told me to not play with them."

Too perceptive, for such a young soul.

"Red, come here," the boy's mother called from inside their house and bowed when she found him with her child.

That was also strange. His parents called the boy 'Red'. Was it really his name?

The longer he stayed, the more something grew in him that he could not pinpoint. Something in his chest fluttered whenever he watched the boy. Whenever he went with his father to gather woods or helping his mother with house chores—that he noticed the boy mostly do by himself—and carving those incredulous trinkets with his tiny hands.

It was obscene.

* * *

They told him that they would take him back to the city on their next trip to the city after they deemed him recovered in his ninth day staying with them. They would need to make preparations if they were to leave the nameless village for good, after all.

He remained quiet, and they must have had assumed that he was conforming to their plan if their giddiness throughout the rest of the week was anything to say about it. Their child was puzzled, but he looked happy that his parents seemed to be, too, and the fact that they didn't leave him that week to sell their merchandise made him smile all day. It was painful to see how the child loved them so terribly and see the way they treated him. Sometimes like a servant, other times like an object to never be sullied.

Yet, as the boy told him in one of his blabber sessions, they left him alone every week since he was a mere _four years old,_ to sell their filthy trinkets—with no one there to watch him. They were irresponsible as they were stupid. Even he knew, as the daimyo's son who was barely of age, that the countryside was teeming with bandits and insurgents hiding in the forest lines, as he knew from his kidnappers whose former hideout was somewhere amongst those areas. And the boy, left on his own devices in a house far from the other villagers', he was the most vulnerable of them all. The boy must have been blessed with good luck that nothing ever happened to him in those four years until then.

The villagers never came by to their house either, and the only one who did was an old fisherman who came from time to time to sell them his catch—the ones that could be easily caught in the nearby river, but these people never seemed to want to. They didn't interact much with the rest of the village, the wife only went there for stock and supplies a couple of times per week, as he had observed, and she took the child with her to carry her baskets.

The boy was often by his lonesome. He would be by the river splashing his feet in the water or watching the ducks at the small pond near their house, whenever he had time to spare. He sometimes would leave the area, going somewhere in the village, and he thought that maybe he would play with the other kids. He always returned not long after, the cheerful smile he threw whenever he left was just a little bit duller when he came back.

He followed the child on the tenth day of his stay, without the child's knowledge. He went down the trails to an open field just at the edge of the village, where young boys twice the child's age and size were playing _kemari_. He thought the child would go and join the older boys and play, but to his surprise, he simply sat down near a large bush and watched them play. Was this what he had been doing all this time?

"Why?" he asked, before he even realized it, "why don't you join them?"

The redhaired child, as if knowing he was there all along, turned gave him a crooked grin, a radiant twinkle in his eyes, happy that the drifter was finally talking to him.

"It's more fun watching them play!"

He frowned. No matter what, he could see how eager the child was to join the boys down at the field, from the twitch of his fingers and the way he would lean forward when someone kicked the ball so high that he thought it would reach the clouds.

"Mother doesn't want me to play with them," the child finally said, after a while, "they were being mean, and they made me wet with their yucky pee once. Mother had to keep me in the river for an hour to get the stink off!"

If he let himself, perhaps he would blanch. How could the boy retell such a bad memory with such fondness?

"Mother said that I shouldn't be far-thernizing with them, anyway," the redhaired boy mumbled, followed by a long silence.

The child didn't seem to mind that he rarely ever said anything back to him. No, he didn't seem to mind _anything_ that had happened in his life, misery was like rain running down his back, and his face was gleaming with the everlasting sunshine. How could a tiny, innocent flower survive under such thunderstorms?

"Fraternizing."

He saw the boy looked at him from the corner of his eye, but he kept his sharp gaze at the field, already imagining things to make the other kids pay for what they did. He surprised himself how much he cared about it, but the boy... he turned his head slightly to take a better look at the boy who was beaming at him with such innocence, his hair flaming red with the sun, and the light caught his eyes ablaze in a warm bronze glow.

The boy deserved so much better.

Instead of the boys playing down at the field, they turned their heads to the setting sun over the horizon, the sky catching fire and glowed yellow, orange and red, the hint of pink and purple of night creeping from above.

When he felt a tiny hand inching close to his own, and felt those cold fingers wrapped around his little finger, he let them be. And he let the tiny body leaned against his own, and he let beautiful vermillion clouded his vision, and warm, floral scent of the oils his mother used on the boy's skin to fill his nose.

Something took over him and he let his arm wrapped around the small figure, bringing it close to his own as he heard the child's gasp of surprise, letting him settle on his lap as they both watched the stunning sunset. For the first time in the ten years since his mother's death, he let another body cling close to his.

The boy's hands curled around his arms, and he felt those fingers clenched tight until they trembled, not wanting to let go. Warm tears dripped down his arms and tsunami washed over him when he realized that this might be the first time someone ever held the boy close in comfort, in his short life. The boy was silent, though tremors shook his small shoulders as he curled further into his arms, turning from the setting sun to snuggle against his chest.

He gritted his teeth when he heard soft breaths puffing down chest, the steady heartbeat echoing his own—the boy was fast asleep. The boy melted and accepted him, trusted him just as easily through the sliver of kindness he spared amongst the cold and pain he had brought so many times before.

The boy who was just as lonely as he was.

It was scary, how the warmth of another could bring him so much comfort, something he had been denying himself for so long. Something that his current predicament had allowed to happen. He would have to leave before he made himself even more vulnerable.

Ten days was long enough for him to stay at the small, nameless village. And the daimyo's search team hadn't made their way there again, after the boy's parents told him of the fact that they stumbled down the main road a few days before his arrival. He set his mind.

.

He made the plan in his head, preparations of what he might need in his journey already forming, along with the time he needed to leave without anyone noticing.

At least those were the thoughts that swam in his head, swirling like a curse ready to strike him at his weakest, even as he tightened his hold on the slumbering child, the cold night creeping in.

* * *

There was the light pitter-patter of rain outside, and the cool night air seeped through the wooden walls of the house.

He picked the child's small form which was lying at the tatami mat in his arms gently as if carrying a frail flower that could fall apart at the slightest hint of force. He put the sleeping boy on the tattered futon he had used during his stay, dragging the cover to his shoulders. It was past midnight, from the faded sound of the horn by the village's watchtower some minutes ago.

He shrugged on his frayed _haori_ that the boy's mother managed to salvage—the rest of his kimono was too damaged to be of any use to him anymore. Padding with his _tabi_ already worn, towards one corner of the small room, he picked up the katana he had stolen from one of his kidnappers, that the boy's father had reluctantly given back to him some days ago after he had demanded it. He stood up straight and slotted the plain sword along with its equally plain scabbard in his obi by his left hip. Taking a deep breath he didn't need, he set his shoulders. It was all that he could prepare, and it was time for him to leave.

When he walked towards the shoji screens and to his exit, it was like something stopped him. It was himself, he realized. He stayed a long while, his eyes were cold and blank but his hands curled into fists that they almost bleed, his jaws clenched painfully. A silent snarl escaped his lips and he turned on his heels and padded softly to where his gut begged him to go.

He knelt down next to the futon, watching the slumbering child in his sleep. The quiet atmosphere followed by the comforting sound of rain would lull him to sleep, was he not in such conflict with himself. His mind and his heart at war, one telling him to go at once before he lost his chance, while the other told him to stay a little longer—

He cursed himself.

The boy was quiet, his breathing steady and he was curled up at his side, facing where he was kneeling. He was afraid that the child would wake up and see him, that his resolution would break, already wavering as it was, when he looked at glossy brown orbs pleading for him to stay, the innocent smile and the trust in his eyes that he wouldn't leave the boy to be alone again. His hand hovered inches from the boy's cheek, the desire to run his fingers on the scarlet mane and stroke the soft skin was nigh unstoppable. For a moment he thought his heart stopped.

He retracted his hand and stood up. A sinking feeling in his heart but he tighten his reins on them. He turned around and walked towards the shoji once more in determination—

"Are you leaving?" a sleepy voice called.

It was like cold, freezing water had been drenched on him. The sinking feeling dragged down his heart to the depth of an endless ocean and he wavered in his steps as he held back a shuddering breath, and the sting crept into his dry eyes. But he walked on weakened knees, sliding the paper screen open and closed it behind him quietly.

Once he was outside in the rain that was getting stronger and stronger—the sign of another thunderstorm, _good_ , since it would provide him cover from anyone that might be following him—and he walked steadily to the dense foliage by the main road to the city without so much as looking back.

* * *

He didn't see the redhaired child watching him as he left without a word, his cold back unwavering. He didn't see the trembling form, gasping for breath as the boy cried silently because he didn't want to disturb his parents from their sleep, and he didn't see the boy clutching and clawing at his chest as if trying to find something that was never there, his lips bleeding as red as his hair from stifling his noises.

He didn't see the child hugging himself through the thunderstorm, not because he was afraid, but because every time he closed his eyes, the child could only see the raven's eyes piercing through him.

* * *

Every step was lead in his feet, and every step his heart was crushed by the pressure of the depth it was drowning in. The rain was pelting heavily down his back as he shivered and hunched his shoulders, the warm trails of water trickling down his face was immediately met by the cold, merciless rain.

_He was a small boat in the midst of the tumultuous dark ocean, his ropes torn from the dock by no one but himself, trying to find the home that he had left behind._

Only when he saw the lights from the city that never slept, and the rain subdued, and his steps were lighter as he knew he would make it back to his family. His sinking heart floated back, and it extracted within it everything that burdened him, and the heaviness was lifted from him and it grew lighter and lighter, until—

—there was nothing left.

* * *

He didn't stay long enough to see, as he found himself inching closer to his home, to safety, the dozens and dozens of shadowy men approaching the edge of the small, vulnerable village, their weapons glinting with the heartless flashes of lightning.

He didn't see the village glowing red and orange, scorching heat engulfing everything in its path as the smoke rose up to the dark heavens, relentless and untameable even by the storm. He didn't see the screaming people as these shadows invaded their peaceful, unassuming life, taken away as easily as a samurai's katana cutting through thin cloths.

He didn't see the boy's father, his bloodied body dropping to the cold ground as his head was sliced clean, tumbling several steps away like the _kemari_ ball the boys in the village used to play with. He didn't see what they did to the boy's mother, her kimono torn to shreds along with her own person, moments before she too, was killed.

They made the boy watch everything as it transpired; ugly laughter and shouts barely registering to the numb child, who stared at the blood seeping through the ground, muddled with dirt; and it was filthy— _and_ he _was filthy_

'— _and filthy boys are disgusting, aren't they?'_

And he didn't see how they took the redhaired boy away, limp and broken as a doll, thrusted into the world of cruel men.

.

What he could see was his father who smiled in relief at his heir coming home, brought in by the guards that stood watch outside of the compound.

He smiled at his father, a smile that didn't reach the eyes.

He was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Join Bleach Discord server [The Seireitei](https://discord.gg/hzsdXyW)


	2. Floating World - the Biwa Player

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They met in the floating world. One burdened with the recollection of pain in leaving a precious life behind, while the other's memories were shrouded from his broken past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second part of the story is here :) This won't be as tragic as the first, rest assured, but it would be heavily leaning on the floating world of courtesans and pleasure quarters. I added 'objectification' as a tag because the floating world is filled with little else than that, sadly.

Thunderstorms waged wars across the night sky and flooded the dirt road with murky rainwater, lightning struck a distance away, and the sound of a large tree falling down sent a vibration through the ground as people ran about like ants trying to find shelter.

"In here, milord!" a matured man with a charismatic visage ushered his younger companion through a large, red door and into the shelter of an equally large and gaudy hallway. Their _haori_ were soaking wet as beautiful attendants fluttered around them, taking off the waterlogged outer garments and dabbed away the water on their skin while whispering sweet welcoming words to the two men. The younger man took the wrist of his attendant when she touched his skin and threw her a dark look. She cowered and let him snatch the towels from her weak hands.

"Shunsui," the young lord remarked coolly, the man in question smiling knowingly at him, "this is a _pleasure house_."

"Only the best in the city," Shunsui nodded, thanking one of the young girls with an improper smirk and a lingering touch on her delicate wrist, making her pale skin flush as she ran along with her friends. Undoubtedly, they would be talking about the incident all night long, of the lascivious, bearded samurai and his handsome, yet fearsome companion.

At the cold glare he was receiving, the older man chuckled and attempted to assuage the ire in the younger's eyes. "A mere jest, Byakuya-sama," Shunsui drawled flippantly, his lips stuck in a permanent quirk, "this is simply the closest shelter we could find amidst this _awful_ weather. And I am, ah, _closely acquainted_ with the mistress of the house." The implication in those words only managed to raise the raven's vexation.

"Gentlemen," a melodious voice of a woman invaded their hearing and they turned to face a beautiful lady with her glamorous _hikizuri_ trailing down behind her, billowing red and gold _uchikake_ made of the finest silk draped over her elegant form as she spread her arms wide in a warm welcome.

"Ah, when Kako told me of the two men gracing our fine establishment in this stormy night, I didn't expect to see such dashing fellows right in my front door," the light-haired woman gushed, bowing deeply to show her respect to the damp-clothed men in front of her.

"Rangiku, you always know how to elevate a man's ego," Shunsui barked a laugh, taking her dainty hand in his large one, and left a chaste kiss on her exposed wrist.

The younger man, Byakuya, curled his lips at such an onerous display. Rangiku noticed the sour look in the man's shapely face and hid a smile behind the long sleeve of her _uchikake_.

"I believe we haven't been made acquaintance yet, my lord."

"Ah, yes. Soujun-sama's successor, Lord Byakuya," Shunsui finally introduced, gesturing to the raven who looked as if he wanted nothing but to run away, the thunderstorm be damned.

Recognition dawned on Rangiku's eyes and she only barely managed to not let her jaws dropped at the revelation of who the man was. While the Daimyo himself was already a heavy name to bear, but the heir was in a whole different level of infamy.

"M-my," she awed, "to think that the Conqueror of Ise himself has graced this servant's humble teahouse. It is the greatest honor to serve you, my lord." She bowed low, once again. It wasn't a frequent occurrence that her establishment could gather _two_ highly prestigious patrons of the finest pedigree in one night. It was as if her prayers had been answered.

"We are here to take shelter from the rain," Byakuya said curtly, dismissing the woman's words. Rangiku almost made a dour expression but she schooled her features as the professional courtesan that she was. _What an imperious young man_ , she thought, _but surely, a man, nonetheless._

"Oh, Byakuya-dono, it is the most opportune time. Please let this wonderful lady lead us to a night of... ah, relaxation after the decidedly cumbersome nature of our previous engagement,” Shunsui said with a pointed look, “and the rain won't be dying down soon," with that he gestured towards the open hallway, towards where courtesans were serving their patrons sake and snacks before they retire for the night. Several free, young women smiled at their direction and floated away in their attempt at seduction, their tinkling laughter inviting.

And as if to emphasize his point, a loud thunder boom struck right outside, and the sound of the rain grew louder as they got stronger.

The raven snuffed out the urge to grit his teeth. Shunsui could tell the other had relented, with the defeated sag of his hard shoulders, that only one as close and perceptive as he was to the raven could see. He grinned at Rangiku as if signaling to her that yes, they would like to stay the night.

Rangiku caught the look and understood, silently thanking the elder's persuasion and cheerily inviting them further into the larger room at the end of the short hallway. Indeed, the finest establishment in the pleasure district, red and gold-colored paint stretched across every inch of the walls, as golden décor littered the space filled with tastefully lacquered high tables and chairs. It was the public section of the house, filled with those who seek shelter and simply came to enjoy the beautiful display of the courtesans and their alcoholic drinks.

There were no cheaply made _yūjo_ here, and not everyone could get their hands on her _oiran_ without prominent backgrounds and proper courtship—unless they were the two men trailing after her (1). Rangiku's kimono, done in the same color pattern as the room blended into the atmosphere as if she herself was part of the entire building. It was befitting, for a woman with such a grand presence.

She called for a servant girl who reddened at the sight of the two men, and Shunsui noticed it was the same one who he flirted with before, from the way the girl grazed her fingers subconsciously on her clothed wrist. Rangiku whispered a string of orders to her quietly, and the girl bowed before hurrying away to do her mistress' biddings.

"This way, my lords," the light-haired woman gestured as she led them to a less crowded hallway. Another young girl stood beside the _shoji_ and knelt down to open the screens as the trio approached. It was a private room, cozy with thick tatami mats and a low, square table in the middle. Two other attendants announced herself quietly by the open screens and came in with trays of refreshments and snacks. Their demure disposition belying the way they would snag the sleeves and pulled the ends of their kimono a bit too high, showing glimpses of delicate skin, teasing. They were not as innocent as they look, after all, it was a pleasure house.

And while Shunsui was free to ogle at the strips of white skin and enamored himself with the titillating voices of the beautiful women that served them, his younger companion was a little harder to please. The server girls tittered around him a tad more cautiously, his cold eyes uninviting and his disinterested mannerism made them sling away dejectedly. Perhaps now they understood that he wasn't there willingly in the first place, and even if he was forced to, the least he wanted were these mere attendants making their way down his _hakama_ instead of the most elegant of _oiran_ the pleasure house had to offer. He was a man of impeccable taste.

"Ah, there you are Saya, Marin," Rangiku clapped her hands together as a pair of soft voices announced themselves and revealed stunning young women in their elaborate _hikizuri_ , somewhat less grandiose than the one Rangiku was wearing, but it was a given—she was the mistress of the house, after all, the star of her show. But the two men could see that these women were their main event. The ever-elusive, well-esteemed _oiran._ Their mere presence, along with the exuberant one of Rangiku, changed the atmosphere in the room. The sheer class these distinguished women exuded sent the other attendants out to wait on them by the closed _shoji_ , reminded of their place in the steep hierarchy.

"My, how am I so blessed to be surrounded by such stunning women!" Shunsui exclaimed, his tipsy mouth already looser than usual with the four cups of sake he had downed.

"You haven't visited in far too long, Shunsui-dono," Rangiku chuckled into her sake cup, a flush on her cheeks signifying her relatively intoxicated state.

"Indeed, indeed!"

One of the _oiran_ , a brunette who called herself Marin, knelt down beside Byakuya with a mystifying smile as she looked up from her elegant bow, and promptly poured him sake to his empty cup. She was entirely too close, and her lingering scent, light orange blossom, wafted to his nose pleasantly.

She was good, he noted, from the way she laughed at Shunsui's indecent jokes lightly, never straying too deep into the conversation and focused on her personal patron instead, not minding of his silence. The way her dainty hand grazed, and touched the fabric of his kimono sleeve, knowing that he was interested just by noting that he had yet to push her away for the small gesture. The high updo she had donned showed the delicate line of her nape under her kimono collar, and he could already feel the stirrings growing stronger within, and before he knew it, his hand already made their way to clasp at the woman's clothed knee.

She was experienced in the art, as she outwardly didn't show that she noticed, but her own hand slipped from his kimono sleeve and trailed down hidden under the low table, clasping on his larger one. He caught her hand and took it away from his. She looked at him, but he didn't return it. He would touch her, the gesture said, but she couldn't touch him. Dejectedly she placed her hands back in her lap.

There was no hint of subtlety on Shunsui's side, as he had his arm draped around the _oiran_ and she was practically on his lap, giggling at every little thing he said, executing witty comebacks that would put the noblewomen in the daimyo's court to shame. The atmosphere had gotten heavy with the passion, and the seductions, both subtle and bold, encroached into the loins of the men, reminding them of what they could have if they would take these women to the private chambers of the pleasure house later on that night.

Rangiku had a strange glint in her eyes, though the two men hardly noticed, too preoccupied with the beautiful _oiran_ , though it was less than noticeable in the stoic mien the younger man divulged.

"Gentlemen," she said, cutting through the two's preoccupation, "allow me to give you one last entertainment for the night."

"Oh?" Shunsui inclined his head turning away from the neck of a flushed-faced Saya, that he was kissing inappropriately.

Byakuya noticed the two women tensed, ever so slightly, a twitch in Marin's hands clasped on her lap and the hardened look in her eyes before they dissipated away. Shunsui, too, noticed despite his state of intoxication, and the two men wondered what sort of entertainment that Rangiku hand to offer, that made the two beautiful _oiran_ so upset.

Rangiku clapped her hand twice loudly. And then the voice of the young attendant outside drifted into the room before the shoji screens were opened once again.

Red.

Suddenly flashes and images of memories long forgotten exploded into his vision, pictures and sounds of laughter, a lonely form by the hills overlooking a large field, of innocent questions and the feeling of soft and warm comfort as he clung to an innocent child so dear—

" _Are you leaving?"_

The hollowness in his heart that had been persistent for eight, cold winters.

"Come in here, Ren," the voice of Rangiku cut through his visions and he blinked back the haziness to look at the person kneeling by the doorway.

Rangiku had a moment of relapse when she saw the other coming into the room, eyes sweeping over the appearance, but she arranged her expression coolly.

Ren was dressed in a plain, beige _Iro-muji_ and its understated pearly white obi. With that crimson mane tied loosely with a tasseled, white ribbon, no matter how vibrant and beautiful, still managing to look demure and elegant, in a class different than even the stunning _oiran_ that had graced their presence. Skin as dewy as the freshest peaches, making the pale fairness that the other courtesans sought for dull and pasty in comparison. And unlike the courtesans who deemed the showing of feet as sensual, Ren covers those feet with _tabi_ , instead.

A biwa was cradled loosely in those long, elegant fingers, and Shunsui was the first to show his delight.

"Rangiku, why, are you slowly turning this place into an _okiya_ , now? _(_ _2)_ "

"Please, Shunsui-dono," Rangiku hid a crooked smirk, "our sisters in the _Hanamachi_ are indeed quite beautiful and excellent in their arts, but here in our pleasure quarters, I can assure you the company is as high in quality, and of course less, ah... _constrictive_."

"Sooner or later you will bring shame to the _Hanamachi_!"

"I would hope it be sooner, milord," she smirked, much to Shunsui's further amusement at the bold statement.

They all knew the geishas were but a sliver of spice amidst the sugary ocean of the illusive world of courtesans (3). However so, even Rangiku was not blind to the gaining traction the so-called artists had; each their intelligence and beauty worth that of an _oiran_ , with reservations that made the men drool at the secrets they held under the layers of their oft time modest and simplistic appearance. She understood, after all, the inner workings of the men that she had observed and _served_ for the many years of her life, for their bittersweet desire for the unattainable. Nonetheless, the day when those innocuous geishas would take over the floating world was still far, far away, and she would do her best to make sure her legacy in this pleasure quarters were preserved for generations to come.

In the private room, the other _oiran_ were quiet, watching Ren's every movement as Rangiku ushered the redhead to take the place in front of the guest table, moving to one corner so that Ren could take the spotlight. it appeared that there was a sort of rivalry amongst the _oiran_ with the newcomer, by the way Marin bit her lip for a split second, and her arm brushed against his as she shifted ever so closer to him, the possessive act not lost, but inconsequential in his eyes.

 _How quaint_ , he thought, the mundane plight that these people suffer.

"Play your most beautiful tune, Ren," Rangiku whispered with a smile, to which it wasn't quite reciprocated, except for a jerky nod that signified the other's nervousness.

A strum of the biwa's strings echoed in the room, and everything went quiet, the storm outside a dull background sound. A series of singular strums followed, one increasingly faster than the one before it, and then the plectrum struck across all the strings, followed by a vibrating melody of the residual sound.

A haunting voice, strong yet sweet, pressed forth, and Byakuya almost choked on the sake he was sipping. It only occurred to him that Ren—beautiful, elegant and dainty with _his_ flaming red hair—was a male, taller than the women around them, with a wider set of shoulders and Adam's apple bobbing with every syllable those rosy lips uttered. A young man, perhaps no older than sixteen years, and a fine, slender body yet to develop further into maturity, enveloped by an equally fine female robe. Shunsui didn't seem surprised, then again, he also didn't outwardly show his own shock.

There was something nostalgic about Ren. Something he couldn't quite yet grasp. The memories flitting down his thoughts were blurry, and remembering them proved quite painful, pulling something in his chest that he knew was not there anymore. But Ren's music managed to distract him, if for a short moment, and his presence a balm to his soul. Strange.

His voice interluded with every struck of the plectrum, and Ren was retelling the great story of Nasu no Yoichi (4) long ago in the Genpei War, where he shot down a Heike courtesan's fan struck on a thwart of a small, elaborate boat in the precarious sea with a single release of his arrow.

He was captivated, with every flick of Ren's wrist as the plectrum held loosely in his hand, and the fingers pressing lovingly against the neck of the biwa, his lips that barely moved, yet producing such loud, meaningful music complementing and conversing with the staccato sounds of the biwa. His eyes were half-lidded, _red lashes_ sweeping and fluttering on the tops of his cheeks, brown orbs peeking shyly behind the scarlet curtain.

"Byakuya-dono?" a voice called his name, and he realized he had been so lost Ren that he didn't notice the redhead had finished his performance. Marin's eyes showed questions unasked, concern, and the sharp hint of possessiveness, as if she knew he was captivated by Ren's performance that he forgot his reticence.

"What a spectacular performance, my dear," Shunsui praised, even his intoxicated state was sobered by the beautiful music—or was it simply for Ren's exotic beauty? Saya curled her own arms around Shunsui, reminding him that she was still there.

"Thank you, milord, but I still have much to learn." The voice held a slightly different quality in normal speech, smooth and still had its lilting tones of _arinsu-kotoba_ , a signature style of speech the people serving in any pleasure quarter had, to hide the regional dialect they had that may be unpleasant to hear.

"Nonsense, it was a beautiful performance, my _lovely_ Ren," Marin said, her tone was soft yet it held a hard edge, and she delivered her strike like a spider to an unassuming butterfly, "although I must say that particular piece is a little... _spirited_ for the company, don't you think?"

Saya chuckled at the other _oiran_ 's remarks, the boorish insult clear in her sneering tone, and Byakuya could see the tenseness on Ren's shoulders, his head still tilted down in respect. "I figured it was something to lift the dull atmosphere, Marin- _neesan_ ," he said innocently, "the weather outside, I mean."

The underhanded comeback belying the courteous reply wasn't lost on the courtesans' fine perceptions, and Byakuya could almost see Saya seething from where she sat beside Shunsui, Marin on the other hand, curled her fists so tightly the skin turned white. Rangiku, in her corner, hid her smile with a cough behind her wide sleeve.

Shunsui slapped a hand on his thigh and threw out a hearty laugh, "Certainly, a spirited piece for such a fiery beauty!"

"Tell me, Rangiku dear," the older man said again, "is our stunning Ren here also available for the night?"

It was as if Shunsui was deliberately baiting the _oiran_ in the room. Saya's eyes were filled with rage and betrayal, yet she was unable to voice or act on them, so she chose to loosen her hold on Shunsui's arm instead. The man didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he didn't mention it.

"My, Shunsui-dono, the sake had loosened your tongue," Rangiku chuckled, "but I'm afraid our dear Ren here is but a _shinzo_."

Shunsui was puzzled. "Is that why I have never seen him before?"

"Indeed, my lord, I have been personally training him," she said with a smile, "in fact, his _mizuage_ ceremony would be held in the next full moon, as he finally turns sixteen."

This caught Byakuya's attention.

Shunsui hummed in satisfaction at the information given to him. He turned to the redhead who was quiet the entire time, letting Rangiku speak his words for him as the mistress of the house. "Then I will be sure to not miss it, Ren-chan."

The redhead bowed down with his words of gratitude and was excused from the room by the mistress afterward. He didn't take his time, hurrying away from the room with his biwa in arms, without so much as a glance at both Byakuya and Shunsui. It seemed this display of nonchalance only managed to spur Shunsui's interest, as he watched the elegant lines of the redhead's modestly covered back with something akin to hunger in his eyes. As if Ren was a pile of fresh meat ready to be devoured by predators.

Byakuya didn't like the analogy one bit, even though such was the fate of those selling their appearance and body to the paying customers, even for one night.

"You are very much welcome to attend Ren's _mizuage_ if you so wish, Byakuya-dono," Rangiku said after a while, the room had quietened as small conversations took over once more.

"Hm."

The smile in the light-haired woman's face widened and she straightened herself. "Well, I will let Marin and Saya entertain you for the rest of the night. You will be escorted to the private chambers when you are ready for your rest," she said with a knowing look in her eyes, clapping her hands together, "while I will be attending to my precious patrons right outside."

With that, she bowed to the two lords and excused herself from the room. With Rangiku gone, Shunsui entertained himself by letting a disgruntled Saya poured him more sake, engaging in light conversations that she half-heartedly took her part in. Marin tried her best to gain Byakuya's attention, but even she knew his interest lied elsewhere. Still, it was _her_ that would be attending the famous warlord for that night, and she counted her blessings.

While most patrons would take days to even so much as shown a glimpse of her body, the samurai she and Saya were attending to were special. It was the exact opposite of her usual conduct, and it was her who was tasked to get close to the stoic raven, to open his barriers, as if she was the paying patron instead of him. While the change in the role should excite her, being the chaser instead of the chased, what she felt instead was _cheap_. He wasn't succumbing to her attention, though she knew he was at one point interested. It was all because of that innocuous redhead.

"Is it true that you single-handedly subdued 200 rebels on your own, Byakuya-sama?" Marin asked after a while, pouring her lord another cup full of sake as if pushing him to become more inebriated meant that he would grow less cold and more affectionate—something she had been trying to fish out of him for the past hour. She was not just some lowly _yūjo_ who was desperate for attention, she was a high-class _oiran_!

Byakuya threw her a side-along look at the sudden change in honorifics. She had called him with the suffix - _dono_ for the entirety of the night, and the change to - _sama_ made him nearly raise one delicate eyebrow. It seemed that she had gotten desperate.

"I _killed_ them all," he said coldly, sipping into his sake cup and putting it down on the lacquered table none too gently.

The dark meaning behind his cold words and his harsh action made her shudder. He squeezed her knee, the gesture only serving to make her gasp at the bold display, and for a moment she felt fear for the man who she had thought as less of a harm that his older companion. He had turned from the façade of a cold gentleman to the ruthless samurai that he really was.

He would not be playing this drawn-out game of chase any longer.

"I will be retiring for the night, Shunsui," he said aloud to capture the other man's attention, "we will return by the first light tomorrow. Do not be late."

With that he stood up without so much as waiting for the older man's response, making Marin scrambled along and led him out of the room. How she wished she had gotten the charming Shunsui-dono instead, she thought glanced at the man who was busy flirting with her friend.

* * *

"Ren!"

"Rangiku-san," he acknowledged the fuming woman standing in front of his room, in the middle of taking the ribbon off his crimson hair. It was dark, with only a few candles lighting up the mirror he was kneeling in front of, a paper lamp at one corner of the room. As her _shinzo_ , he was given a space of his own—albeit still smaller than that of an _oiran—_ unlike the other _kamuro_ little girls who bunked in a group of two in a much smaller, plainer room.

"I specifically told you to wear that _hikizuri_ I had made for you," the mistress pressed as she entered the room, her long kimono swishing and dragging down the tatami. He scoffed, too soft for her to hear, as he completely untied the ribbon and let his hair loose and ran his fingers to smooth out the kinks that may have gathered in the loose knot.

"It's too gaudy for my taste, Rangiku-san," he threw her a pointed glare from the mirror, tucking a stray strand behind his ear, "and it's hard to play the biwa in that thing, the stupid sleeves get in the way."

"And your _hair!_ " she continued her tirade as she watched him comb out his enviously smooth hair as if she didn't hear him, "what happened to the jade _kanzashi_ I gave you? Didn't I tell Kako to have Ru-chan have your hair done? Renji it's your _debut_ night! In front of two of the most sought-after bachelors in this city!"

"What debut? There's only the two perverted samurai watching!" he snorted as he shrugged off the kimono he was wearing, uncaring of the common audience—she had seen more of him than even _himself_. Taking a thin, white yukata with cherry blossom prints around the hems, he donned it loosely and tied a plain obi around his waist.

If she was less of a lady that she was, Rangiku suspected that she would be rolling her eyes at the dramatic boy. "You are not a _geisha_ , Renji, you didn't expect to be performing in a big hall filled with people, do you? _And,_ don't you know who you were entertaining back there? Be careful of your words, young man."

"I heard of that Shunsui guy," he raised his brow at her admonishing tone, "the other... Byakuya? He must be some sort of a high-ranking samurai too or some shit, right?" _An_ _annoyingly handsome one_ , he mentally added, but he didn’t wish for his silent observation to be known.

Rangiku was about to reprimand him for the crass language when someone came running into the room.

"Renji!" a high-pitched voice shouted right outside before barging in uninvited. A small girl with black, shoulder-length hair and a bright red kimono suitable for a young _kamuro_ strut close to the two inside the room, her glare malicious yet out of place with her big, dark eyes that gleamed violet under certain lightings.

"You were performing for the Conqueror of Ise and you didn't tell me?!"

"Conqueror of what now?" Renji was taken aback at her sudden outburst.

At the small girl's withering look he raised his hands defensively. "I don't follow politics, Rukia," he said in defense, voice dry and eyes unimpressed.

"Can it, Ru-chan," Rangiku said sharply when the young girl was about to retaliate, "I was talking to him _first_. You may go and catch a glimpse at the two lords downstairs, granted if they are still in the private entertaining room."

The dark look of anger immediately changed to a bright beam and the girl yelled out her cheers as she skipped out of the room, only managing to control her gait when Rangiku yelled at her that 'you are not a horse, Rukia, walk _normally_!'

"Anyway, even though you failed to listen to me, as you do all the time," the mistress curled her lips in a lighthearted jeer, "it seems like you had successfully gathered their rapt attention. Shunsui-dono was practically drooling for you, I thought Saya would combust."

"You just made them hate me more," he groaned when she giggled at her own observation. Saya and Marin had been under her care for longer than he was, having been brought to her by their poor parents five years before Rangiku bought him. They were his senior in more than just age, and their jealousy of him showed from time to time—with how the mistress' interest heavily placed upon his own education and apprenticeship.

They had been dubbed _oiran_ in their pleasure house, and subsequently grew in popularity for their charm and wit—as they should. For a while, they left him alone as they bask in their fame amongst patrons and peers, until he had been made Rangiku's _shinzo_ , despite her retirement as an active courtesan. Their innocent remarks at his looks had grown to pranks unsuited for their age—misplacing the kimono he was supposed to wear for a particular lesson, having found his _geta_ floating by the pond in the house's backyard, and even one time, _accidentally_ tripped him onto messing his meticulously styled hair, just when he was in the middle of learning about one of the most important parts of being an _oiran_ —the procession—where he fell in front of the public's eyes.

Rangiku, of course, was aware of their actions. Yet there was not much she could do, when they were making the most income in her pleasure house, that the expenses of taking care of their own _kamuro_ , along with the entirety of their needs were met with a surplus that they invested back into improving the house. Ren was forced to endure their childish pranks—but for no longer. In a month, his _mizuage_ would come and he would be the most desirable courtesan in all of the pleasure quarters in the city, she just knew it.

"The floating world is a tough place to live in, Ren," she reminded him, "they need to step up their game if a _shinzo_ can take away their patrons' interest. Not that you are an ordinary _shinzo_. I could sense the jealousy rolling off Byakuya-dono's eyes when Shunsui-dono was ogling your back." She laughed by the end, her eyes twinkling in mischief as she slapped her own thigh.

The words stung in a way that Renji didn't think he liked very much. It was as if he was a mere object. As if they all were mere objects. Having spent most of the life that he could remember learning the arts within the pleasure industry, he simply couldn't see himself part of the people who actually enjoyed the 'art'. He couldn't see the appeal of ogling at people in elaborate kimono who stood behind bars that he likened as animals in cages, or drooling over an ankle exposed, or a pale wrist that accidentally grazed over another’s skin.

"I hate it," he finally said, almost hating himself for being so sour even as his mistress was beaming in glee.

But Rangiku didn't seem to mind. She understood what he meant, and she inched closer, wrapping an arm around his still-developing body. Her playful demeanor turned soft, that of a mother he saw on plays or on the streets—and most obviously not that of the mother he only remembered in glimpses underneath the darkness that shrouded his memories.

"That's why I won't have you just perform in front of anybody, darling," she told him softly, squeezing his shoulders in an attempt of reassurance, "I don't want one of those dirty bastards having your _mizuage_ ruined. At least Shunsui-dono is a gentleman, _if_ he ever managed to win the bid."

Ren wondered, maybe if he wasn't made into a courtesan in the first place, she wouldn't need to be so concerned. He wouldn't need to sell his 'chastity' to the highest bidder—as if there was anything chaste left about him, he thought bitterly. A life entirely spent in a pleasure house, learning the ropes of the shadowy industry since childhood would rob anyone of any sort of 'chastity'. As Rangiku said, the floating world was a tough place to live in.

Then again, without her help, he would be dying in a ditch somewhere, used by the lowest scums in the city. He recoiled at the imagery. He owed her his life, and if that wasn't the heaviest debt one could have, he didn't know what was. A lifetime spent serving the house would never be enough to repay her kindness, despite his longing to explore the things that existed outside of the floating world.

"Or maybe the young and dashing Byakuya-dono," Rangiku's leer cut through his depressing train of thought. It took only but a fraction of a moment until Ren blushed at the implication; his bare face reddened under the warm light of the candles by the mirror even as Rangiku laughed aloud, slapping her thigh again.

"You don't even know if they _will_ make a bid. And even if they did, it's master and servant you pitted against each other here, that's rare. Not to mention asking for trouble."

"Oh, they will make the bid." And that _glint_ in her eyes, "and don't worry Renji, Shunsui-dono would gracefully give his chance up when his master took the bid, he would rather commit _seppuku_ than dishonor his lord."

"Not to mention, Byakuya-dono was so jealously attentive of you in that room, Ren, I thought he would sooner _pounce_!" A vein ticked under the skin of his forehead.

He slapped her thigh for her, hard.

* * *

By the height of the night, the rain still didn't let up, and the lightning flashed outside of the window. The sliver of the weather that showed through the gaps flashed the white light for a split second, painting the room an eerie white, followed by the thunder booms some distance away.

He was staring unblinkingly at the ceiling with his kimono disheveled from their previous activity; his _kosode_ untucked from his loosely tied hakama. The _oiran_ , Marin, lied beside him, arranged in a way that her exhausted, slumbering form was a distance away from his own, never touching.

She was bare except for her _uchikake_ that covered the both of them, her hair spilling from the updo she had sported before, her _kanzashi_ lying somewhere when he threw it away but some hour ago. The lingering scent of orange blossom was still there, even amidst the heady musk of sex that permeated the dark room, safe for a flickering lantern by one far corner.

The sublimity of post-coital bliss failed to grasp his turbulent mind, his previous actions half-hearted and unfulfilling to himself, even as the body beneath him but some time ago whispered and cried and gasp out his name in unparalleled throes of ecstasy. Or so the courtesan let shown to him—who knew what went under the mind of the people who worked in the shadows of pleasure.

It was of little consequence, he found, his ego unblemished by the trivialities of sharing pleasure with but a temporary bed partner whose name he shall erase from his thoughts come morning. For his mind was wandering elsewhere the entire time.

As he drove the cold and merciless need surging through his veins, lighting his instincts on fire to the willing _oiran_ , as his name spilled over and over again in prayers from the mouth that had belatedly realized it had lost its elegance and peerless quality in place for debauched vulgarity, the intelligent eyes that had lost its witty twinkle for dazed corruption, all he could see, and all he could hear was—Ren.

His pleasure stemmed not from the passionate heat that ensconced his physical flesh, but the lewd envisioning of the innocent hand that held a plectrum in its clutch, and the gentle press of long, dedicated fingers on the neck of Benten's chosen instrument (5). The cries of his name were lost to his ears, replaced by the ghost of a haunting voice that sang a tune of miracle and heroism, and the clever tongue that drove the other _oiran_ into madness with but a single line. The vibrance and sheer luxury of the garbs laid out skewed for his eyes to feast on were of no importance, yet the plain beige _iro-muji_ that hugged the slender line of a still-developing figure of a tall and elegant stature saw him to be blessed in the gates of heaven—if he ever believed in such otherworldly notion.

And the crimson mane that had yet escape his eyes, unrelenting in its place in the back of his head as it pushed him down the road of a past he tried to forget, never succeeding, nevertheless. Reminding him of someone he had longed to see yet feared to realize, denial surged and pushed away his ill-timed suspicions.

Still, as he laid restless, his eyes heavy yet unclosed, he couldn't help but see the innocent young boy in the mysterious _shinzo_ named Ren.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes:
> 
> (1) To be graced by an oiran's company, a patron usually goes through a process that shows whether he is qualified for an oiran to entertain him. First, he must go to a teashop (ochaya) to be appointed to the pleasure house with the oiran of his choosing and goes through some interviews with her. The oiran chooses whether she wants him or not. To be a patron of an oiran is costly, as he has to show a display of his wealth in each meeting, and showers her with expensive gifts several times a year. Once an oiran chooses a patron, he may not select another prostitute. The case with Shunsui and Byakuya is different because their stature precedes most men and in reverse, it's the pleasure house honors to receive them as guests (at least in my fic lol).
> 
> (2) Shunsui may have said this because Renji's appearance was more similar to that of a geisha than a vibrant courtesan with his simple and modest kimono, albeit still unconventionally plain with the choice of iro-muji instead of a trailing hikizuri and the equally plain hairstyle without a kanzashi. This made Shunsui think that Rangiku was slowly refurbishing her pleasure house into an okiya, starting with Ren. An okiya is a house where geisha lives (but not to entertain guests, as that is done in a teahouse or ochaya).
> 
> (3) This fic is set in around the late 17th century Tokugawa period, where the geisha had yet gained prominence and take over the fame and popularity of courtesans as merchants of high wealth increased in numbers. Rangiku and Shunsui's interaction here was in mocking jest, since the courtesans were still in the big league at the time, while the geisha a fresh underdog catering to the merchant class as opposed to the oiran's upper-class patronage.
> 
> (4) The piece Renji played with his biwa is a part of the Heike Monogatari, an epic tale of struggle between the Taira Clan and Minamoto Clan to gain control of 12th century Japan in the Genpei War.
> 
> (5) Biwa is the chosen instrument of Benten, the Japanese Buddhist goddess of literature, music, wealth, and femininity.
> 
> *An oiran is a high-ranking courtesan whose job is not only for sexual pleasure, but she is educated in traditional art and a high intellect to match her upper-class patron. A shinzo is an apprentice of the courtesan around 13-23 years old, a kamuro is a younger apprentice around 6-15 years old, while a yūjo is an ordinary sex worker.
> 
> **
> 
> The footnotes might be excessive, but I think it's necessary to understand the general workings and background of the world. Be warned that I researched all that I could, but it may still be inaccurate. 
> 
> ...aaand this might be longer than I first thought, after all lol


	3. The Floating World - Memories and Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ren invoked vulnerability in Byakuya that he didn't like and the outcome might be something he would regret later on.

The pleasure quarters along with the _Hanamachi_ made up upon their own little town, fully equipped with trading merchants, leisure and entertainment spots, inns and restaurants, and the place where the core business took place—the teahouses and pleasure houses. While most merchants trade from out of town, most essential workers in the Floating World—the courtesans and geishas—never stepped outside of their own little bubble. To keep the illusion of the world separate from real life, or because there really was nowhere to go for these elusive artists; patrons and visitors—outsiders—would never know. Their lives were as mysterious and illusory as their art and otherworldly beauty.

It would come to no surprise, then, with their limited experience with the outside world, naïve, although their intelligent eyes would fool you, that some would wonder and daydream of what could and could not be.

“He was so tall and handsome. And he carried such a beautiful sword! Oh, Ren, he walks like a _god_ , no wonder he is an actual blood-relative of the shogun himself. I would be so lucky when I’m older that he would be my _danna_ (1)!”

“... courtesans don’t get _danna_ , Rukia,” Ren sighed for what seemed to be the twelfth time that hour, watching as the little girl beside him prattle non-stop about the patron that graced their pleasure house three nights ago.

It was on that particular day that their mistress sent him on an errand to deliver a message to a certain teahouse that worked alongside their pleasure house for over ten years. She didn’t tell him the content of the message, only that she didn’t trust the other servants to do the job for her. Ren, being himself, shrugged it off and simply did as he was told. On his way back he saw Rukia in a _dango_ shop and they decided to make their way back together. And of course she would start to ramble on about the dark-haired warlord again.

“Oh, don’t mind the finer details,” the black-haired girl smacked his arm lightly, and gleefully leered up at him, “besides, Rangiku-san said he might be the one to attend your _mizuage_.”

He glared at the girl who beamed at him in mischief. “Rangiku-san is overconfident, as usual,” he said with an air of finality.

Rukia blinked and narrowed her eyes. “I _will_ tell her you said that.” To which Ren could only roll his eyes.

Stares were thrown at the pair, and most especially the crimson maned young man dressed in a way that the classiest courtesan of the district would loath to wear for its simplicity; at a time where grandiose display of ornate garments was desired. His color coding was calm and neutral, preferring calm pastels, washed-out greys, faded blues, and beiges rather than the bright colors most _kamuro_ would wear, as the young girl walking beside him with her red _furisode_ fluttering down the cobblestone road. In comparison, his plain grey yukata and off-white _haori_ blended into the background, drawing out the furious crimson of his mane that was tied in a high ponytail.

An accidental glance of glimmering bronze orbs sent a laborer tripping on his own feet and dropping all the woodblock prints he was carrying, and a graze of touching kimonos that sent wafts of light camellia scent turned the head of an inconspicuous merchant that made him crash against several other people. Yet through the chaos that he created, Ren was unassuming and ignorant, while Rukia was there to absorb just how much she had to catch up on to be on the same level of influence that Ren had, even when he wasn’t trying.

But then something else caught her eyes.

“Ren!” she hissed, tugging harshly at her older companion’s kimono sleeve.

“What is it now?” the redhead grumbled down at her and looked at where her tiny finger was pointing at.

Ducking outside of a well-renowned restaurant in the district was the daimyo’s son, Byakuya-dono, whom he had entertained three nights ago; the object of Rukia’s incessant rambling. But he noted, now that he looked at her as they approached the older man, that Rukia was reduced to utter silence. He inwardly snorted. _Now she’s all shy_. There was no time to change their route, as the lord immediately noticed them, looking at him with a blank gaze that he had gotten familiar with from the one time they met before—though they never really interacted, now that he thought about it.

“Byakuya-dono,” he greeted with a bow, urging the starstruck girl to do the same, “it is a pleasant surprise. What is a man of your stature doing in this pleasure district at this time of the day?”

Rukia stepped on his _tabi_ -covered foot, but he didn’t flinch.

Byakuya didn’t react to the subtle jab, instead he inclined his head. “I had some business to attend to.”

“Oh?”

The raven was silent, the press for a further elaboration went unanswered. _Quite an imperious man_ , Renji thought, _but still, a man, nonetheless_. He was reminded of the sharpness in those slate greys as they pierced through his form three nights ago. Though he couldn’t quite place what those looks meant, unlike Shunsui-dono’s more blatant stares, being raised by the most famous retired _Tayū_ (2) in the district as he was, he knew of the want and desires behind even the most stoic of men. The samurai standing before him would be no different, albeit a challenge to read.

The man was as fond of the subtlety of neutrals, it seemed, with his dark grey _kamishimo_ ensemble displaying the prestige of his family’s _mon_ and the black _kosode_ that contrasted with his pale skin made his nobility status stood out amongst the middle- and lower-class people around them. His hair was held up in a simple top knot, unshaved at the top unlike most samurai with their _chonmage—good for him_ , Ren thought, never having cared for the particular hairstyle in the first place _._ If Ren was of those who were fashion-conscious, he would comment that their outfit matched each other perfectly.

Byakuya could tell that the redheaded _shinzo_ was appraising him, from the way his brown eyes subtly raked across his body and settled to study his face, before politely looking somewhere over his shoulder. A distinct rumble of his ego surfaced, and his chest seemed to puff just a little wider and his posture erected to a more imposing stance—he was duly reminded of the exotic peacocks from the land of China, displaying their impressive plumage in an act of courtship to attract females—in his case, the beautiful redhead who seemed to not lack every bit of wit in any circumstances.

The small girl standing beside Ren squirmed and let out a not-so-subtle cough, and he realized she looked familiar. He remembered the girl slinging behind some wall and watched him go as the _oiran_ in their pleasure house led him to her room—and try as he might, he really did forget her name come morning. Her eyes now were the same as they were then, admiration attacked him full force and he could tell she was one of those children, awed by the tales of his battles. He couldn’t blame them, the stories preceded his name with the way they were presented in _Kabuki_ plays and by artists of various kinds with words and retelling that were not his own, but those who witnessed but parts of his fights.

“Would you care for a cup of tea at our place, Byakuya-dono?” Ren said, flowing through his musings like water in the spring, “it’s already quite close, and the mistress would be most pleased to see you again.”

_A bold one_ , Byakuya found in appreciation, Ren’s eyes meeting his and the not-quite smile that curled on his face a mystery for him to solve. As with most—if not all—of the workers in the pleasure quarters, Byakuya was ever critical if they were genuine or not, their acting superb and their eyes can tell lies encased in thin truths. It would be disgraceful of him to succumb to those pretenses and fell into their ‘genuine’ falsities.

Yet with Ren, somehow all those paranoia and distrustful feelings disappeared. It was a much scarier notion that he couldn’t escape from. _Trust goes hand in hand with betrayal._

He was following along the redhead’s footsteps before he realized it, eyes focusing down the road where Ren walked, the simple _zori_ he wore underneath his _tabi_ -covered feet, unlike the more traditionally acceptable _okobo_ like what the little _kamuro_ beside him was wearing. Ren was tall for his age, and he noted that if the redhead were to wear _okobo_ , he would tower over most people, let alone the signature _koma-geta_ that the _oiran_ wore.

His eyes trailed upward, nearly glazed as they followed the swishing fabric of his kimono as Ren walked in a subdued pace two steps in front of him, and up towards the flowing crimson strand atop his high ponytail. It was truly a unique color, he thought, awed from the way the light from the sun would make the strands glimmer like gemstones, the way that the soft breeze and his light steps would make the silky mane dance.

It wasn’t just him that was awed by Ren, he found, and a cold glance towards straying eyes would miraculously avert them somewhere less glaring. They might not know who he was by face, but the ornate _katana_ by his hip and the five _mon_ on his kimono would make them understand his ranks amongst them, at the very least; and that the redhead walking so close ahead of him was his to accompany—and perhaps, in time, court.

It was as he remembered from what Shunsui told him of his first time courting an _oiran_. First, she would shy away, cold and unwilling to even converse, let alone touch. He would need to persuade her with gifts and praises worthy of an empress, for she was the ruler of the night, and he was her humble servant. And then she would gradually warm up to him, until he was _hers_ , not the opposite, and he was to never stray from her loyalty as long as they were together. Though Shunsui, being _Shunsui_ , got away with courting not one, but four other _oiran_ , for nothing but the weight his name held when push came to shove—or bluntly speaking, when he got bored.

And Byakuya suspected that the _shinzo_ , too, was taught this art of seduction of the highest caliber by his mistress. Byakuya knew how much other men desired to pursue, to chase, _to hunt_ , and to be denied the pleasure of touch when they were so very close. The thrill of not having what was laid in front of them.

Frankly, he was not in the interest of such elaborate—and in his opinion—obnoxious game. As was demonstrated the previous night, he was offered what he wanted, not the other way around. He would be the one to reward his bed partner for satisfactory performance, and he would shower them with expensive gifts if they were deserving of them, and not less. He could care less of the arrogance these courtesans deemed they were entitled to, having never stoop low for anyone in his life, always the one with the upper hand.

His musings paused.

Except, perhaps on that one time in his teenage years when he was captured. Yet he managed to escape on his own, eliminating the threats in the process. And that thought led to another strand that he wished he didn’t uncover.

When he held the boy in his arms, as they looked at the glimmering sunset.

When he knelt down by the tattered futon where the boy lied, his head bowed down as he tried to control his warring emotions.

When he cried silent tears as he trudged down the road to his home, knowing he had left behind something that was precious to him, every step needles under his feet. 

_._

_“Are you leaving?”_

“Byakuya-dono?” Ren’s voice fluttered to his ears, and he looked at the boy numbly, concern written in the brown eyes peering at his own. Before he knew it, they were already in front of Rangiku’s pleasure house. Something in his chest sunk, and goosebumps prickled his skin as could realization struck. Had he been so lost in his own thoughts that he ignored his surroundings, rendering himself vulnerable?

He admonished himself harshly; a man of his stature was the target of many assassinations and abduction attempts, he knew this, as he lived through it over and over again since he was a child. He should know better than to lower his guard.

_Because of a mere prostitute_ , he snarled bitterly inside his head. The concern in Ren’s eyes turned in his vision into something less innocent, akin to a venomous snake with beautiful, pure white scales, yet deceitful and deathly all the same.

It was foolish of him to nearly fall into the same hole other men before him had fallen, lured by the beauty and pleasure that these workers rewarded them in exchange for momentary vulnerabilities—it was all it took to lose his life. He thanked whatever deities that his eyes were opened before he suffered the same fate in the hands of a master performer.

Even though deep down, he knew it was more than just beauty and pleasure of the flesh, the flashes of memories running through his head merged with the face of the young man before him, before he cruelly banished them from his head entirely.

If there was anyone he could ever trust with his life, it wouldn’t be to a common whore.

* * *

There was a shift in the atmosphere, Ren noted.

The man was silent as always, as he was offered a seat in the public area of the house—sparse from patrons in the heights of the day—as he was poured a cup of tea by Ren who told Rukia to fetch the pot, and even as they both sat together, coast clear from the other _oiran_ who was in the middle of a dance practice at the time. Yet it was not the same.

It wasn’t the same, comfortable silence, almost warm as the raven would subtly peer at him when he though Ren wasn’t looking, like he did in Ren’s first performance three nights ago. It wasn’t the same silence for the samurai’s lack of interest in chit-chats. And when the man looked at him, a long-forgotten sensation crept up his spine, despite having no recollection of such moments that would warrant the strange emotion.

It was cold. And in the back of his mind, flashes of lightning that lent a deathly sharpness to slate grey orbs attacked him, the ghostly blares of thunderstorms outside of an old house deafening the sound of his heartbeat, and he was staring at someone that wasn’t _human_.

Not like him. Not like...

He tore his gaze away from the calculating ones, his grip on the cup of tea tightening until he heard a subtle crack, before he loosened his hold entirely. He was completely lost as to why the raven was suddenly so hostile. He couldn’t remember any instance when he was antagonizing the raven that deserved him such unkind expression in the stoic man. Maybe it was something else?

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Byakuya-dono,” he said, at last, taking a deep breath, “I said that Rangiku-san would be happy to see you but... it seemed that she isn’t here at the moment.”

The _shinzo_ averted his eyes, and Byakuya felt a hint of satisfaction at that. He could see the fear flashing before those orbs as he turned to his cup of tea, and the trembling hands that were holding the fragile china too tightly before letting go, as if in resignation. 

“It is no matter,” he said coldly, standing up and loomed over the redhead. He almost wished the other would cower, but Ren stood up along instead, confusion in his eyes. He thought there was a glimpse of hurt, but it was gone before he could pinpoint the fleeting emotion.

Before Ren could utter a word, someone else beat him to it.

“Oh, Byakuya-dono, you are leaving so soon?” Rangiku said by the entrance of the hall. She could sense the tense atmosphere, though she didn’t understand why. Ren was positively agitated in her eyes, but it seemed that the raven-haired man couldn’t see it as well as she could, with his taut stance and dark expression upon a carefully arranged stoicism.

Instead of answering, Byakuya walked past her, barely avoiding her dainty figure before he exited the establishment entirely in the span of mere seconds. There was worry in her eyes as she watched the man leave. Turning to face Ren, she saw the boy slumped back in his seat and sighed loudly.

“What happened?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“Ren.”

“’ _Language’_ , yes, I know,” the redhead rolled his eyes, resting his head against the wooden table and letting out another loud sigh.

“Not that,” the mistress said softly, approaching the _shinzo_ and took the seat that Byakuya-dono had used before her.

Ren was quiet, he knew what she really meant. But he wouldn’t even have to lie to her, he really didn’t know what made the raven went all ‘murder face’ and bolted out just like that. But there was something in the samurai’s eyes that made him remember things he wished he didn’t. Blurry as they were in his head, the horror and profound sadness struck him right where he was most vulnerable.

Glimpses of blood and dead bodies lying on the rain-muddled ground.

Cold eyes that flashed with lightning, looking at him as if he was nothing but dirt underneath their feet, like—

_—one of those nobilities in their large palanquins, who caught him staring at the glimpse of their beautiful robes and fair skin behind the slits of the screen windows, though blurred behind the wooden bars and rice screens, his eyes wander. And as they gazed at him, he could see their expression, clear as day, and they held the same disdain, the same coldness that the raven had._

And it was as if he was...

_Filthy_.

_“—and filthy boys are disgusting, aren’t they?”_

He gasped, standing up abruptly. The high-back chair fell with a loud clatter, but he ignored it. His eyes were wide, and his breath came out ragged. His heart was beating so loudly that he thought it was shoved into his ears.

“Ren!” Rangiku exclaimed in worry, shaking his shoulders and tilting his head up to face her. The look in his eyes was not something Rangiku wanted to see ever again. Unshed tears welled in his glossy eyes, red-rimmed and delirious. He never cried, not once, since the moment she took him under her wing eight years ago. And now a single tear made its way down his cheek before the boy harshly wiped them from his face.

“It’s nothing,” he shoved her hands away, ducking down in shame.

“What did he do to you?”

“It’s not him.”

Rangiku could detect a lie to her face as easy as she could blink, and the way Ren answered too quickly made her even more certain. She didn’t know what happened between the two, but she suspected it was something deeper than a simple misunderstanding or overstepping in boundaries. Ren never reacted so strongly to anyone, not even in the first day he was brought to her.

“I shouldn’t have accepted the proposal so hastily,” she mumbled, worrying her bottom lip.

“What proposal?” Ren asked suddenly, frowning. She didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Before she managed to tell Ren a white lie of her slip-up, Rukia bounded into the hall, “I heard a crash, what happened?” the little girl asked, her eyes wide and searching the room with a frown. “Where is Byakuya-dono?”

“Ah, he left on urgent business,” the mistress said, urging the little girl along to another room, “come Ru-chan, you need to practice your writing, it’s _god_ awful.”

“Ehhh,” the girl whined, looking over her back at the quiet redhead still standing over his toppled chair, his crimson strands hiding his downcast face.

“Ren?” she mumbled in concern, but Rangiku gripped her arm and drag her out faster than she could utter ‘let’s play’.

* * *

He didn’t return to the pleasure house until a week later, and the one who greeted him didn’t look all too happy with his appearance.

“Byakuya-dono, what a surprise to see you again,” Rangiku said with her sweet voice, though Byakuya detected a hint of malice in her tone that she covered up spectacularly well. She was standing by the crimson door to her establishment, as if guarding the place against predators—or as he would like to guess, from _him_.

“Shunsui is here,” he said matter-of-factly, not letting the impudence irritate him. He wasn’t there to be bullied by entertainers.

“He is.”

“The Daimyo needs him.”

“Oh? Byakuya-dono what a kind man you are, that you let Daimyo-sama’s messenger take a break!”

He curled his lips at her words, and she smiled her overtly sweet smile as if it was stuck on her face. She was deliberately baiting him, and he would not fall for such a petty taunt.

“It is a matter of utmost privacy, and also, it is none of your concern,” he said coolly, pushing her aside as he entered the place as if he owned it, “lead me to him.”

Her voice turned less made-up and more _raw_ when she said, “about the propositi—”

“I will stand by it,” Byakuya cut her off, his voice a bit too harsh—too _wild_ —to his liking as he turned on his heels and fixed her with his threatening dark eyes, “and so will you.”

Satisfaction flowed through as he watched her almost recoiled at his sudden words, her eyes fearful but she tried to keep her calm visage like the veteran courtesan that she was. She bowed respectfully, lower than she usually would to her patrons, and led him to where Shunsui was currently at.

It was another full house that night, patrons and richly dressed servant girls filled the large hall of the house’s public section and string players played beautiful tunes and sang of the Tale of Genji. The stunning _oiran_ were nowhere in sight, but Byakuya understood that the rare jewels were kept only for the most privileged men.

Rangiku’s establishment was unique in that she had no _oiran_ on display behind latticed front rooms, and patronage was limited to those she chose out of strict recommendations by her trusted teahouses, or those whom she personally knew well. The fact that the mistress of the house was a retired _Tayū_ , the only one in the city’s floating world, added to the appeal and exclusivity of her particular establishment. Indeed, even wealthy merchants found themselves shorthanded in frequenting her alluring courtesans.

The faint yet distinct sound of a biwa reached his ears before he was led to the familiar narrow passage towards the private rooms at the back of the building, paper lanterns lighted up the dark wooden hall, and the sweet incense scent filtered through the thin _shoji_ screens. A servant girl kneeled by the doorway turned to the two newcomers and bowed lowly before announcing their arrival to the occupants inside and opening up the screens for them. The plucked sounds of the biwa strings grew louder, and the powdery scent stronger.

Shunsui was sitting cross-legged by the low table and for once, his sake cup was left untouched. One of his arms rested on the table, supporting his head and his body was turned away from the open doorway, facing the small space for the performer up the left side of the room. His side profile showed the rugged handsomeness of the man, his unshaven beard and the loose ponytail resting over one shoulder. He was dressed loosely in a simple _kosode_ and hakama ensemble and a pink, flowery kimono that belonged to a woman more than a man draped across his wide back. His eyes unusually soft and affectionate, and his mien relaxed in a way that was true instead up made up as he watched more than listened to the biwa player who played languid strokes that could lull anyone to the land of dreams.

It was the first time Byakuya saw the older man so genuinely relaxed and at ease despite his perceived persona. The man was more guarded that he let shown, his outer disposition a mask to deceive potential threats to whomever he was guarding. But now, in the split-second Byakuya had to study the man, he was so utterly unguarded that he had completely missed the two people standing right outside of the opened _shoji_.

_What had Shunsui in such a rare mood_ , he wondered as he proceeded to enter the room—and just like that the sound of the biwa stopped.

The abruptness made him turn towards the performer before he could control his action, and his heart skipped.

The biwa player, talented and calm, beautiful and elegance-incarnate, was none other than Rangiku’s prized _shinzo._ His _furisode_ was made of a delicate _rinzu_ fabric in pale blue, and an off-white obi tied with red _obijime_ that paled in comparison to his vibrant crimson tresses, pulled to a rare _shimada_ instead of their usually loose style.

Ren was watching him with an unreadable expression, his mouth turned into a tight line and the fingers that were once loosely gripping the plectrum tightened until whites started to show through. His perfect _seiza_ was ruined with how tense he had become, like an arrow ready to be released from its taut bow.

“Ah, Ren-chan why did you stop...?” Shunsui, who was brought out of his reverie, expressed his disappointment before turning to look at what Ren was staring at.

“Byakuya-sama,” he greeted belatedly, standing up with a pleasantly surprised expression. Too bad it wasn’t a mutual reaction.

Byakuya was a hairbreadth away from glowering, but instead, he fixed the older samurai with an impassive stare and said, “the Daimyo _urgently_ seeks your presence.” 

Shunsui was clever and his wit knew no match, but more than that, he was a wise man. He knew better than to poke a slumbering tiger with a wooden stick. So, with a knowing smile that grated on Byakuya’s thinning nerves, the older man obliged, bowing shortly as he passed the raven towards the open _shoji_ , sparing a fond goodbye to the ever-silent Ren.

“Rangiku, do come and send me off,” Shunsui said, urging the mistress of the house to walk with him and away from the room despite protests at the tip of her tongue. There must be something in his eyes that made the woman assent and walked off without further ado, not even having the chance to exchange eye contacts let alone words with Ren, who was watching the entire thing passively, like an audience of a dull Kabuki play.

The _shoji_ was closed with a soft tap and there were only the two of them left behind. The tenseness could be cut with a knife, and as Byakuya walked towards where Shunsui was seated moments ago, discarding the barely used sake cup to a far corner, his eyes were burning in a silent match with Ren’s bronze orbs.

Perhaps he had wounded something personal in the _shinzo_ last week, to have been subjected to such cold scrutiny. Hypocrisy was never an act he dabbled in, but surely it was pettiness rather than true indignancy that waved over Ren’s emotions, an opposite to Byakuya’s own genuine repulsion at being sidetracked by a mere entertainer—he simply didn’t have the need to be made vulnerable and exposed by the sight of a pretty face, lest it cost him his life.

Or so he kept repeating, excuses after excuses, denials as long and far-reaching as the great river in a faraway desert country—that Ren didn’t invoke any precious memories from his past, regrets that dragged down his soul at the mere sight of vermillion. Not even for one second, that he dared to acknowledge the hole in his heart that screamed an echo from within every time he looked at the _shinzo_.

A voice asked then, why did the green-eyed monster emerge from its long-forgotten nest mere moments ago, at the sight of Shunsui alone with the redhaired youth to entertain his time in a _pleasure house_ , of all places?

Why did rage-fueled paranoia surround him at the mere suggestion inside his head, that Ren had entertained more than just the older samurai, but other strangers, other men who looked at him with nothing but debauched lust in their greedy eyes?

Why did a surge of a strange sense of protectiveness for Ren rear its head at all the swirling thoughts and scenarios he concocted in his brain?

Ren averted his eyes then, but Byakuya couldn’t even feel an ounce of satisfaction at the small ‘victory’.

_Because if there is anything I want, it is to possess the_ shinzo, he thought to himself, shutting down other voices that spoke otherwise, _a mere pleasure that I can keep for myself._

Like jewelry put on a flaunting display, worn or otherwise kept behind a wooden box.

_Keep thinking that._

He feared that he would, and that it would destroy him.

He denied that too. 

* * *

The situation was beyond ridiculous.

Ren suppressed another frustrated noise from coming out of his mouth, hating himself for not taking the chance to excuse himself when Shunsui-dono and Rangiku-san left a while go.

He had been sitting there for somewhere close to half an hour after they left. And the arrogant raven had yet to say anything after their previous staring match.

_Why is he still here?_ he complained in his head. His legs had been going numb for quite a while now—he just didn’t notice it back when he was still performing for Shunsui-dono—whose company he sorely missed compared to the sour and devastatingly quiet one he was having at that moment.

He didn’t even know how it happened, and why. The moment Byakuya-dono walked in, he could do nothing but freeze, and his eyes locked with the samurai’s before he managed to avert them. And when they were left alone, for some stupid reason, they locked eyes again and he couldn’t bring himself to back down from the challenge—though he struggled to find a reasonable objective for it.

‘Boy will be boys’ Rangiku-san said once, to Rukia’s vehement agreement.

_At least I’m not challenging him to a brawl_ , he thought to himself, sneering at the two females in his head.

Though the more they stared at each other, the sharper and more intense the older man’s eyes were, like they were trying to pry open Ren’s soul. And try as he might, Ren had never seen someone with eyes quite as sharp as Byakuya-dono, and he found it odd that someone with eyes so dark could be so expressive, yet so wintery cold at the same time. A cold fire.

Like lightning.

Thunder boomed in the dark well of his resurfacing memories and he couldn’t find himself looking at the other man’s eyes any longer. It wouldn’t do to have another ‘episode’ after he worried the devil out of his mistress last week, especially not in front of such an important patron.

Which led him back to where they were.

“I apologize for my rather abrupt leave in our previous meeting,” Byakuya-dono’s deep voice breached the silence in the room and Ren applaud himself from not jumping in surprise.

“I was belatedly reminded of an urgent matter with the Daimyo in his return but three days ago.”

There was a pleasant quality in the raven’s tone, something entirely different from the cold one Ren used to hear—though he admitted he hadn’t heard much. Not to mention how it differed from the character Ren had perceived in their previous meetings—and Marin and Rukia’s non-stop rambling, one in begrudging complaints and the latter in utter admiration.

Odd, but at least they started something, and Ren could be nothing but grateful at that moment.

“Ah yes, of course,” Ren said as graciously as he could, perusing his knowledge on current politics as best as he could, “the news of the Daimyo’s return from Edo has reached even the smallest corners of the pleasure quarters. _Sankin-kōtai_ (3) is quite a tedious policy, indeed.”

If the raven was impressed with his knowledge, he didn’t show it—nothing to be prideful about, all courtesans racing for the title of _Tayū_ should be well-versed in all manner of liberal arts as well as traditional ones. It was a good conversation starter _and_ filler, if anything, and Ren was grateful that the hours he spent studying those subjects had come bearing fruits.

Shunsui-dono wasn’t much of a serious talker, not that Ren minded. There was a charming honesty in the small talks he stroked with Ren—it was like he was talking with an uncle he never had, more than a patron he had to please. Byakuya-dono, however, seemed like he wasn’t much of a chit-chat person. Not that Ren would expect him to try conversing with him, he wasn’t that arrogant—he hears of the struggle Marin had before. 

“Of course, any blood-relatives of the _shogun_ are given some, ah, _leniency._ Which is why I would remain in the city for another month before traveling back to Edo.”  
  
.

... _was that a joke?_

Ren looked at the lord as if he grew a second head. And it wasn’t the ‘pleasant surprise’ kind that he would rather have, shock humor that he could throw a laugh at and move on.

There was a glaze of made-up sweetness in Byakuya-dono’s unusually soft expression. A drop of deceit in his small smile, lighting up his face in what others would call handsome, but to Ren...

Ren knew what it was. He wasn’t a fool, he wasn’t naïve, and so was anyone who worked in the floating world. They might be clueless of the world outside their own, but they knew of the people who come to use their services. They knew of what they must read in their patrons’ eyes and the way they acted, in the slightest changes of their expression, to better serve them in any way they could—as long as the coins could provide.

But Ren was a fool. Ren was naïve. Ren was _arrogant_ , because he thought Byakuya-dono was different than other patrons in the pleasure house.

Byakuya-dono, who was smiling in a way that screamed _fake_ , in a way that told him exactly what the man wanted from Ren.

How stupid of him, to think that a paying patron would be anything but an opportunist. That Byakuya-dono would want his company, and that it hurt to admit how painful it was when the man left him with a cold-hearted glare a week ago, knowing it was more than the pathetic excuse he told Ren a few moments before. That it made him relive long-forgotten memories of thunderstorms and blood, of an important person who left him behind.

That for the first time in eight years, Ren thought he was ready to regain those memories, because the short moments he had with Byakuya-dono had filled him with nothing but an odd yet comforting sense nostalgia, even amidst the nightmares that plagued his dreams.

That perhaps he could find where he belonged if he stuck close to the man.

It was stupid of him to even hope that he would be treated like any other person despite his job in a pleasure house.

He carried on the small conversation as well as he could, not wanting to ruin Rangiku-san’s reputation, though creeping coldness teased at his nerves. The relief he felt moments ago when they breached the silence turned into uneasiness and dread. Like deathly spikes threatening to stab him underneath the thin material of the cushion he was kneeling on.

The thought that the raven was pretending for the sake of bagging Ren’s _mizuage_ was revolting—because what else could the man want, knowing his intention clear in his made-up sweetness? As if Ren was merchandise that can be bargained. Cheapened down to the price the samurai was willing to pay.

Treating him like any other courtesans— _worse_ , because Marin complained of his cold character and unwillingness to be touched despite his ‘actions’ underneath the sheets. Worse, because somehow the raven thought Ren wasn’t worth his cold yet mostly genuine detachment, and instead wore on a fake mask of a kind gentleman that could draw most women to his feet with his charm.

Worse, because how could it not be when Ren felt a gaping maw from the stab in whatever was left of his pride?

Bile rose up his throat, but he forced it down with a smile and a ‘thank you’ at Byakuya-dono’s remark about his ‘exceptionally splendid hair’, something studiously clinical to be said to a beautiful painting or a calligraphy piece, rather than a heartfelt compliment.

An object. A mere object to be appraised and bought.

A fruit to be let ripened, eaten to its core, and then tossed away to the ground with nothing but dead seeds.

So the thought persisted. And as it persisted, it grew in conviction, and the more he saw the signs. The rest of the older man’s stay was filled with sugar-coated words from Ren’s part, and a painful sweetness from Byakuya-dono. The older man didn’t seem to mind his lack of wit, and Ren hoped his hollow emotions didn’t show through his eyes, despite the pleasing expression he glued on his face.

When it was time to leave, Byakuya-dono showed a small smile, a gentleman smile, and Ren could only bow so low in his seat that his head touched the tatami, his shameful tears that threatened to overflow hidden from view.

And Ren hated that it hurt more than the dark thunderstorms in his shrouded memories, the remembrance of someone leaving him behind in destructive loneliness.

Byakuya-dono didn’t notice, he was already gone.

* * *

But Byakuya did. And he heard the quiet, stuttering breaths of the bowing _shinzo_ as he walked out of the room.

He swore he had done this before.

Still, he left. 

* * *

\- _to be continued_ -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes:
> 
> (1) A danna is essentially a benefactor for a geisha, a man who provided financial support for most, if not all of the geisha’s expenses, buy her gifts and engage in a more personal level than normal patrons in a banquet or a party that the geisha performs in. The relationship between a danna and a geisha are not historically intimate, but the reality of the relationship was never brought to a clear light as the world of the floating world is ofttimes shrouded in secrets as to keep the workers’ reputation. In this case, Rukia might have mixed the role of a danna along with that of a courtesan in her naïve, ‘childish’ fantasies. 
> 
> (2) Tayū was the highest-ranking courtesan in the pleasure quarters prior to mid-18th century in the Tokugawa Shogunate (Edo Period). Engaging with a Tayū required the most time, effort and money than any other courtesans in historical Japan, and more often than not, patrons who had spent countless days and significant amount of money in the courtship process still got rejected by her.   
> The term oiran was actually made popular after mid-18th century, but I’m using the term to signify high-ranking courtesans in the pleasure quarters in general and will use specific terms later on when I’m specifying other ranks. 
> 
> (3) Sankin-kotai (lit. alternate attendance) was a policy enacted by the Tokugawa Shogunate that mandated daimyo from all regions to alternate living for around a year in Edo (capital) and their domains, while their wives and heirs will be kept in Edo as hostages of the Shogun while the daimyo was away. The purpose was to strengthen the Shogun’s control over the daimyo, not only due to their hostage family, but also the expenditures required for the lavish residence kept in both locations, and the elaborate processions required of their status in the back-and-forth travels they do on a yearly basis would put a financial strain for the daimyo. With the hundreds of daimyo traveling to and from Edo each year, processions would be seen almost on a daily basis, generating economic activities along the routes.
> 
> ***
> 
> Okay, the non-angst didn't last did it lol
> 
> Ren is still as perceptive as ever, and I’m afraid in this case, it hurt him more than letting him get closer to our jerk and overtly paranoid raven—then again ‘getting closer’ at that moment would be inappropriate I guess? And made it even worse for our boys’ chipping hearts. Byakuya you better right this wrong soon!


End file.
